


All Stirred Up

by chattrekisses



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: A lot of them - Freeform, Also some of the MrBeast crew, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Anyway this is to solve the lack of coffee shop AUs, Awkward Flirting, Because Fuck It, Drinking, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Like so many MCYTs make cameos, M/M, Misunderstandings, Or like SBI+co, Phil has a coffee shop with the SBI, Pining, Smut, Stoner Sapnap, terrible pick-up lines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chattrekisses/pseuds/chattrekisses
Summary: “Can I get you anything else?” asks George.Clay leans his elbows on the counter with a wicked smile. “Are you on the menu?”“What–– that was–– oh my god. So bad.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Karl Jacobs/Sapnap
Comments: 119
Kudos: 591





	1. Iced Vanilla Latte

**Author's Note:**

> I'll take this down if any of them express discomfort at shipping/having fics written/whatever. As it stands, have this coffee shop au.
> 
> Also yell at me on twitter, I'm @chattrekisses!

_Monday, November 2, 11:31 a.m._

“You can’t just–– Tommy, _seriously_ ,” Wilbur, exasperated, is wielding the espresso portafilter before him like it’s a sword. “you can’t give Tubbo free drinks just because he’s your friend.”

George muffles a chuckle with the palm of his hand and pretends to be busy with the cash register. 

“Wilbur, Wilbur, you don’t seem to understand,” says Tommy, gesticulating with a coffee filter. “it’s _Tubbo_. Look at him! You want to make that poor man pay for his own drinks?”

He points at Tubbo, who, for his part, looks rather sheepish. The café table in front of him is littered with empty cups–– all drinks Tommy has brought him, all free of charge.

“I can pay, I do have money,” offers Tubbo, weakly. 

Tommy shushes him. “You’ll pay for nothing here, this is my house.”

Wilbur makes a face. “This is _not_ your house, this is your workplace, Tommy!” Wilbur’s accent gets stronger when he’s frustrated, which is constantly when Tommy’s on the same shift as him. “George, back me up.”

George blinks. “What? No, that’s–– that’s fine. I don’t want to get involved in…” he waves his hand vaguely at the two of them. “all that. I’m good.”

“George. I am your manager,” says Wilbur, hands on his hips. “I order you to tell the child that he can’t give his friends free shit.”

Wilbur’s still holding the portafilter. He looks ridiculous.

“You look ridiculous,” George points out. 

Tommy lets out a cackle so intense that he folds over, laughing. Wilbur puts down the portafilter with a frown. He sighs, pinches at the bridge of his nose, and says, “I’m getting a headache. The child is giving me a headache. I need a moment. George, make sure Tommy doesn’t burn the store down or give away our stock of… Tubbo, what are you even drinking?”

“Hot chocolate,” says Tubbo.

“Hot chocolate,” sighs Wilbur. “of course it’s hot chocolate. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Wilbur, still pinching the bridge of his nose, evacuates to the back room. George counts out five quarters on the lip of the counter, and then stacks them, and then pushes the stack over.

“Think I could do latte art, Gogy?” asks Tommy.

“Not my name,” says George.

“I figure I could do it. Make little animals n’ shit. Like ducks or whatever.”

Tubbo perks up. “Think you could do a bee?”

“Bet you ten dollars that I could make the best bee,” grins Tommy. “Gogy, how do you do latte art?”

“Tommy, you’ve already been banned from using the milk steamer ––” starts George. He’s cut off by the doorbell chiming as a pair of men walk into the store. George turns immediately to Tommy. “Tommy. Customer service face on. No cursing, no latte art.”

Tommy grins wide, his braces on display. “Best behavior.”

George turns to the customers and _oh boy._

One’s got glasses, shaggy hair, a black and red hoodie. The other is very, very good looking. They’re frantically whispering at each other. 

“Holy _shit_ , Bad, he’s so––”

“Language!”

“I’m gonna––”

“Don’t you dare!”

George clears his throat. “Hi. Welcome to _Just Brew It_. Can I get anything started for you?”

The very, very attractive one, who happens to be very tall, and very blond, turns to George. “Think you already have,” he says. It’s practically a purr. 

His eyes are the color of honey to George–– they’re probably green then, really. 

George can feel himself turning red. “What,” he says, intelligently. 

Glasses-man pushes his friend out of the way, frowning. “Sorry, sorry. Ignore him, he’s a muffinhead. I’ll take a cold brew, room for milk. He’ll have an iced vanilla latte, please.”

Honey-eyes smiles at George, his hands in his pockets. 

“Uh, sure. Yes, of course. That’ll be eight-forty,” says George. He fixes his gaze on the cash register, which is safe and doesn’t have pretty eyes. 

A card is offered to him, and the card is attached to a hand, which is attached to an arm, which is attached to the very attractive man. And George is looking at the man again, which is bad, and unprofessional, so he swallows and takes the card, and looks pointedly back at the register. 

He rings up the purchase and signals to Tommy, who picks up a paper cup and a Sharpie. “Names for the order?” asks Tommy.

“Darryl,” says the man with the glasses. “Two r’s and a y.”

“Clay,” says the man with the honey-eyes. George can feel Clay’s gaze on him. “No fancy spelling.”

Clay smiles, and _fucking fuck_. George feels rooted to the spot. 

Tommy looks at George for a moment, eyebrows creased with concern, and waits for him to do his customer service line. George clears his throat.

“Um. We’ll, uh. We’ll call you when the drinks are ready,” says George. 

“Thank you…” Clay leans forward and eyes George’s name tag. “George. Nice name.”

“Thanks,” George says. It’s blunt, and he feels stupid, and Clay’s not even _that_ attractive but George feels like pushing every word from his lips is an obstacle. “Thank you.”

Clay flashes a smile and moves away from the counter with his friend. George takes a breath and puts his head in his hands. 

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters.

He feels Tommy poke his cheek with the Sharpie. “Dude, what the fuck was that? That was a _mess_.”

“Shut up.” George fortifies himself with a breath and starts making Clay’s order. He lets Tommy deal with Darryl’s, because it’s easy and doesn’t involve syrups–– Tommy is not allowed to use the syrups, because he has had _incidents_. 

“Are you, like, sick or something? Are you in trouble? With, like, _the law_? Blink twice if you’re in trouble with the law,” says Tommy. He’s got a straw tucked behind his ear, which is both unsanitary and absurd looking.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Why would I be in trouble with the law?” scoffs George.

“Because you’re acting _weird_.” Tommy looks suspiciously at Clay, and then at George. “Wait. Wait. I’m thinking.”

“Yeah, don’t hurt yourself,” says George as he adds vanilla syrup to Clay’s drink. 

“Is this, like,” Tommy drops his voice conspiratorially. “a _gay_ thing?”

George fumbles, and _fantastic_ , now there’s syrup all over his hands. Even better, Clay must have been watching, because he’s wheezing with laughter like a damn teakettle. 

His laugh, though. It’s familiar in a way that George can’t place, in a way that stings. 

“Tommy, _what the fuck_ ,” hisses George. He runs to the sink and starts to wash his hands, cheeks burning. 

Tommy comes up behind him. “It totally is, isn’t it? I mean, I personally am a fan of women, but I s’pose he’s pretty for a bloke.”

George finishes drying his hands and turns to find Tommy inspecting Clay unabashedly. George hits him over the head with the towel.

“Do your job and _make the damn drink_ , Tommy!”

“That’s assault, that is!” says Tommy. “Plus, I already finished the drink!”

George returns to Clay’s drink. He adds the milk to the drink and tops it with a lid and a straw. He places Clay’s drink on the counter next to Darryl’s. 

“Your drinks,” he says, pushes them across the counter toward the customers. 

Darryl takes his drink first, and lifts the lid, ready to add milk. He blinks and studies the surface of the drink. “Is this… a bee?”

George whips to face Tommy. “Tommy. What did I say about latte art?”

Tommy does not look remorseful at all. “To not do it. Sorry, Gogy, but I follow my heart.”

“ _Gogy_?” Clay wheezes in disbelief. 

George’s eyes go wide. He turns to Clay. “No, that’s not–– that’s not my name! My name is not Gogy!”

Clay wheezes harder. Darryl studies the bee on his coffee. Credit where credit is due, the bee does not look terrible. 

“I like it,” says Darryl. “It’s very pretty.”

Clay composes himself, and then looks directly at George. “Very pretty,” he repeats. 

George feels a little lightheaded. 

Darryl rolls his eyes at Clay. “Muffinhead. You’re a muffinhead! We’re leaving before you harass the staff more,” he turns to George and Tommy and says, “Sorry. So Sorry. Thank you for the drinks, have a nice day!”

Darryl grabs his drink in one hand and Clay’s wrist in the other, and forcefully drags Clay from the establishment. 

Clay waves and smiles crookedly at George before he disappears from the building. 

_Very pretty_ rings in George’s ears. 

“How’d ya like the bee art, Tubbo? Pretty good, eh?” grins Tommy. 

Tubbo nods sagely. “I like-a da bee.”

“Tubbo like-a da bee.”

Wilbur has already returned from the back room and yelled at Tommy for unsolicited latte art before Clay’s words stop replaying in George’s head.

***

_Monday, November 2, 5:17 p.m._

There’s something baking, something chocolate, George can smell it. He kicks off his shoes in the front room of his apartment and lines them up next to two other pairs of sneakers. 

“Hey!” comes a voice. “George!”

“Yeah?” George calls back. He makes his way to the living room to find Nick playing COD on the couch. 

“I’m gonna order a pizza,” says Nick, not looking away from the screen. “From that place Karl works at, he gets a discount.”

“Karl’s here?” says George. There’s a lilt to his voice, an intonation, and it makes Nick’s eyes snap to him. 

“Don’t you fucking start. Yes, Karl’s here. He’s in the kitchen,” hisses Nick. 

George grins. “He’s baking for you?”

Nick’s cheeks color. “Shut up.”

“That’s domestic.”

“ _Shut. Up._ ”

Laughing, George walks to the kitchen. Karl’s there, worrying over the oven. 

“George! Hi! I don’t want to be rude, but your oven is a total nimrod, and I’m mad at it,” says Karl. He’s got a single, slightly charred oven mitt on. 

“Yeah, it’s a piece of shit. Hey, are these George-safe brownies, or are they Sapnap-special?” asks George.

“Oh, there’s no weed in these. Just chocolate,” smiles Karl. “Hey, did Nick say something about pizza? I’d die for pizza.”

“He’s gonna order from that place you work at, says you might get a discount?”

“Oh, sick, I totally can! Let me help him with that, take the brownies out when the alarm goes off, okay?” Karl pushes the oven mitt into George’s hands and runs to Nick’s side. 

George watches as Karl lies down on the couch next to Nick and lays his head on Nick’s thigh. Nick sputters, cheeks coloring, and flails with the PlayStation remote for a moment, while Karl laughs and brings out his phone, fiddling with the menu of the pizza joint.

“Is cheese fine for you, George?” shouts Karl.

“Yeah!” 

“Oi, I want pepperoni and olive,” says Nick, poking Karl in the cheek. “And a Sprite.”

“Okay, okay, but I wasn’t asking you, was I? I was asking George,” says Karl.

“But you’re ordering me pepperoni and olive?”

“Chill, Nick, I’m getting you pepperoni and, ugh, _olive_ ,” Karl says, nose wrinkled in disgust. “Can’t believe you like olives. What the honk, dude.”

“Hey! Olives are great!”

George turns back to the oven and idly wonders which one of them will admit their feelings first. 

“How was your day, George?” asks Karl. 

George thinks of green eyes. “It was nice.”

Nick immediately pauses his game. He turns toward George, shocked. “Nice?!”

George makes a face. “What? Am I not allowed to say that I had a nice day?”

“Since you started working at _Just Brew It_ , you’ve never once said you had a ‘nice’ day. You always complain about Tommy. Was he not on shift today, or something?”

“No, he was there.”

“Dude, what the fuck,” says Nick. “What could have possibly made it a ‘nice’ day if Tommy was there? Kid calls you ‘ _Gogy_ ,’ for fuck’s sake.”

Karl peers up at Nick from his place on Nick’s lap, curious. “Gogy?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue, dude.”

George clears his throat. “Tommy was just normal, I don’t know. He tried to do bee latte art and kept giving Tubbo free drinks. Normal shit.”

“Then what happened?!” asks Nick.

“There was,” George blows out a breath. “a guy.”

“A guy?!” Nick makes a face. “Like, a _guy_ guy?”

“Ooo!” grins Karl.

“He was… cute. Okay? That enough for you?” George says.

“So you’re, like, _into_ this guy?” asks Nick. “Damn, it’s been ages since you’ve been into someone!”

“I’m not _into_ him,” protests George. “I don’t even know him. He just had a nice face, and he was… nice to me. It was nice. My day was nice, okay? Can we be done with the interrogation now?”

Lucky for George, the alarm for the brownies goes off, giving him an excuse to turn away from Nick and Karl’s prying eyes. He can blame the oven for the heat in his cheeks. After he lays the tray of brownies out to cool, he makes his way over to the couch. Nick has resumed playing COD, and Karl has returned to fiddling with their pizza order. 

“You know his name?” asks Nick, staring pointedly at his game.

George, cheeks coloring, looks at his hands. “Clay,” he says.

“Huh,” says Nick. “That’s a dumb name.”

George fixes Nick with a scathing look. “Everyone calls you _Sapnap_ . Because of your fucking _Minecraft handle_.”

“Karl doesn’t call me Sapnap!” says Nick. 

“Yeah, but he’s the _only_ person who doesn’t call you Sapnap,” George says. “He’s an outlier. Everyone else calls you Sapnap because you fucked up spelling ‘Pandas’ upside down!”

Nick wrinkles his nose up and pouts. “I resent that. I resent you.”

“Sent!” says Karl, breaking the tension with a smile. He sits up and presses himself against Nick’s side, presenting his phone to George and Nick. There's a confirmation of their pizza order on the screen. “Pizza should be here in an hour!”

Nick, eyes wide, clears his throat. “Good. Swell.”

Karl snatches the PlayStation remote from Nick’s hands and unpauses the COD game. “My turn,” he says. 

“M’kay, go for it,” says Nick. He, very unsubtly, drapes an arm around Karl’s shoulders. 

George rolls his eyes and braces himself for a very long night.


	2. Sprite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ye boi another one today (updates will not be this frequent generally speaking just btw)

_Wednesday, November 4, 2:56 p.m._

George looks up hopefully as another customer comes in, and again he returns to wiping down the counter, disappointed. 

Techno deals with the customer and the order while George pouts and drags the rag he’s holding over the same spot on the counter again. It has been clean for the last ten minutes at least, but George keeps wiping. 

“You’re waitin’ for your boy, aren’t you?” smirks Techno.

“What? Who told you––”

“Tommy. He told me you have a boy toy,” Techno says. 

“A ‘ _boy toy_ ,’” George sputters. “I’m going to strangle that child.” 

“I’ll help,” says Techno, barking out a laugh. “Well, nah. He’s an alright kid. So. There’s a boy, then?”

“ _No._ ”

Techno raises an eyebrow. “There’s a boy, then?” he repeats.

“There’s–– no. Just. He’s cute, alright? It’s not like I know him, he’s just nice in the, uh. The face region.”

“‘ _The face region_?’” scoffs Techno. “George. You’re a mess.”

“I’m goddamn aware,” says George. He wipes at the counter again, and his thoughts stray to green eyes. “ _Ugh_.”

Techno wields a portafilter in his hand like a sword, much like Wilbur did the first time George met Clay. The difference is, when Techno holds it, it actually looks like it could do damage. “What.”

“He called me pretty.”

“Boy toy?”

“Yes. Don’t call him that.”

Techno reaches his free hand forward and awkwardly pats George on the head. 

“Are you actually _bopping_ _me on the head_?”

“No,” says Techno. A moment passes. “Yes. I don’t know how to, I don’t know. Comfort you. This is very strange.”

The bell at the shop’s entrance dings. Techno continues to awkwardly pat George on the head. 

“Why are you doing this,” deadpans George.

“You’re not pouting anymore,” says Techno. “so I consider this a success.”

“Am I interrupting something?” 

George knows that voice. He whacks Techno’s hand off of his head and turns to face the customer, cheeks turning red with embarrassment. 

“No, no,” he says. His gaze meets Clay’s. “Hi.”

Clay’s alone today. He’s wearing a hoodie that’s colored a murky yellow, so George deduces it’s probably green. 

“Hi, George,” says Clay. George feels a little like he’s melting.

Techno looks between the two of them. “Ah. So this is boy––”

George cuts Techno off with a glare that could killer lesser creatures. Luckily for Techno, he is not a lesser creature.

“What can I get you?” asks George. 

“An iced vanilla latte, please,” says Clay. “Name for the order is––”

“Clay,” George finishes. 

Clay smiles, pleased. “Yeah.”

“Can I get you anything else?” asks George. 

Clay leans his elbows on the counter with a wicked smile. “Are _you_ on the menu?”

Now, that catches George by surprise. A laugh escapes him, and it’s loud and absurd and it makes his ribs shake. “What–– that was–– oh my god. So bad.”

Clay blinks at George and retreats, suddenly sheepish. “That bad. Wow. Okay,” he runs a hand through his dirty blond hair. “I am. Not good at this.”

George’s grin is wide and genuine. “Clay, that was _horrible_.”

“Yeah, Bad told me to go with the pun instead,” confesses Clay.

George raises an eyebrow. “Pun?”

Clay clears his throat. “You’re uh… you’re _brew_ -tiful,” he tries.

George stifles a laugh with his palm. “No, that was worse. Somehow, that was worse.”

“Yeah, I figured,” says Clay. His grin is bright and lopsided. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s uh… it’s okay. It’s fine,” says George.

“Fine?”

“Fine. Y’know, nice.”

“Nice?” Clay says. “Damn, George. I see how it is.”

“No, no,” George says, hurriedly. “Shit. Um. I liked it. I’ve, uh… I’ve been thinking about you a latte?”

Clay laughs, and it’s wheezy as a tea kettle. George feels recognition nag at him. “A latte, huh?” says Clay.

“A latte, yeah,” George admits, “I’m glad you came back.”

“I’m glad I did too,” says Clay. His eyes look like amber. George wishes he could see how green they really are. 

“Iced vanilla latte is four-forty,” comes a gruff voice. Techno nudges George out of the way of the cash register. “You can pay with cash or card. George, go make the drink and stop ogling the customers.”

“I am not ogling,” protests George. “I don’t _ogle_.”

This sets Clay off again, wheezing away. 

George starts to make the drink, measuring coffee and adding the ice and syrups. 

Clay is… certainly something. Something nice. George hasn’t had someone interested in him in a while, and it’s a nice feeling. A warm feeling, cradled in his ribs. 

“Yeah, just ‘cause you’re paying doesn’t mean you can ogle too,” Techno chastises. 

George turns and sees Clay looking sheepish. “Yep. Noted. Sorry.”

George offers Clay a smile. “He can do what he wants. Customer’s always right, Techno.”

Techno bristles. “I’m the manager, I make the rules. This is an ogle-free zone. Zone free from ogling. No ogling allowed.”

George finishes off the drink and pops a lid on it. “So demanding,” George tuts as he passes the drink over the counter to Clay. Their fingers brush, and George feels electric. “You should let me make you a drink next time, a surprise one,” he tells Clay.

Clay grins. “Next time?”

“Yeah,” says George. “If you, um. If you come back.”

“I’m coming back,” Clay says. “You mocha me want to.”

George makes a face. “Nope. Very bad.”

Clay winces. “Yeah. I’ll do better.”

“Have a good day, Clay,” says George.

“Nah, I’m gonna have a _nice_ day, eh George?” Clay says. He salutes cheekily, and then turns on his heel and leaves. 

George feels warm all over. 

“You're going to give him your number next time,” states Techno. 

“Yeah?” George says. 

“Yeah.”

"Okay." George watches as Techno methodically straightens up the stacks of cups beside the register. “Hey, so, Techno?”

Techno grunts in acknowledgement. 

“How long does it take you to dye your hair that color?” George asks. 

He’s referring to the, frankly alarming, shade of pink that Techno’s hair is dyed. 

Techno wrinkles his nose up, pig-like, and fixes George with a glare. After a moment, he says, “we need more filters for the pour-over coffee.”

“But––”

“You should grab some from the back.”

“Your hair––”

“ _Filters_.”

***

_Wednesday, November 4, 7:13 p.m._

George stands in front of _Mr. Beast’s Pizzeria_ , his hands shoved into his pockets, a single eyebrow raised at Nick, who stands beside him. “Really, Sap?”

“Shut the fuck up,” mumbles Nick. He’s nervously fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “You said you wanted to go out to dinner.”

“Uh huh. Karl’s on shift, isn’t he?” asks George.

The look Nick sends George is laced in venom. “Shut up. This is not–– I’m not here because of _Karl_. They’ve got good pizza!”

“Yeah, I know. We had their pizza earlier this week.”

“You implyin’ I’m only here for Karl?”

George huffs out a laugh. “Implying? I am _stating_.”

Nick scowls. “Shut up.”

“Don’t be a bummer,” says George, grabbing Nick by the arm. He pulls Nick into the restaurant, making for the hostess stand. “Let’s say hi to your loverboy.”

“He’s not my–– don’t you fucking _dare_ call him that, you shitnugget.”

George is laughing when they arrive at the hostess stand. A gangly man with a scrub of facial hair stands there in an apron, sorting the menus hurriedly. 

“Welcome to _Mr. Beast’s_ , I’m Chandler, what can I––” the man looks up, spots Nick, and recognition flashes in his eyes. “oh shit! You’re Nick! Karl’s Nick!”

“Karl’s–– what?”

Chandler continues, ignoring Nick’s flushed expression. “He’s shown us pictures, y’know. He’s gonna be so stoked, I’ll seat you in his section.”

“Um,” says Nick. He’s still red. 

“That’d be great,” says George with a smile. 

“So you’re the roommate,” says Chandler as he leads George and Nick, who’s still sputtering, to their table. 

“I’m the roommate,” says George.

“ _Just_ the roommate?” asks Chandler, eyebrows high.

“Just the roommate,” confirms George.

Nick faux-gags. “Jesus fuck, he is _just_ the roommate, ohmigod.”

“Good. Here’s your table, Karl should be here in a sec,” Chandler winks at Nick. “Play nice.”

Nick sits down, looking a bit like he’s melting from embarrassment. “Did he just–– did he wink at me?!” 

“He did, holy shit,” laughs George. 

“Why is everyone being like this? Karl and I are just _friends_.”

“For sure, Sapnap.”

“We are!”

“Of course.”

“Dude, stop it!”

“I’m literally agreeing with you, you moron!”

“Yeah, but you don’t mean it!” Nick, clearly done with the situation, frowns deeply and begins to inspect the menu with singular focus. 

George rolls his eyes and looks at the menu. He bypasses the calzones, finds the pizza section, and decides on an extremely basic slice of cheese. It’s a practical, reasonable choice. He folds the menu closed. 

“Nick! George! Hi!” Karl smiles as he arrives at the table. He’s got a pen tucked behind his ear, and he’s bouncing on his heels. “What’re you doing here?”

Nick blinks at Karl. George rolls his eyes and supplies, “dinner.”

“Yeah, we uh… thought we’d do dinner. Here,” says Nick.

Karl laughs good-naturedly. “Dinner date, eh?”

Nick’s eyes go wide. “Date? No, that’s not–– we’re not––”

George, mercifully, cuts him off, “Not a date. Sapnap’s not my type.”

“Yeah, well, you’re no peach either, George,” says Nick. 

Karl laughs. “Oh, heavens, alright. Not a date, noted. George, you know what you want?”

“Two slices of cheese, please, and a Coke,” says George. 

“Great,” smiles Karl. “Alright, I’ll get that started for you.”

Karl makes to leave, but Nick stops him. “Oi, what about me?”

“I already know what you’re gonna get,” laughs Karl. “three slices of pepperoni with olives, Sprite with ice. Or are you gonna surprise me today?”

Nick blinks. “No, that’s… uh. That’s it.”

“Cool,” says Karl. “I’ll put in the order.”

Karl breezes away, and George observes Nick as he watches Karl go. Nick’s cheeks are awfully red. 

“Karl knows your pizza order,” says George.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“How often do you two order pizza together?”

“George, I swear to god, _cease and desist_.”

“No, it’s cute that you’re simping over each other.”

“At least I’m not simping over some random dude who’s named after fuckin’ _mud_!” hisses Nick.

George raises an eyebrow at Nick. “So, you admit you’re simping over Karl?”

Nick swallows and scowls deeply. “No. Shut up. I’m done with this conversation.”

George laughs and lets Nick brood in silence. He leans back against the booth seat, and he feels the fingerprint greasiness of the menu, lets the din of the restaurant wash over him, and he thinks about Clay. About the green of Clay’s eyes, about his smile, about his hands.

It feels silly, and indulgent, to think about Clay like this–– George knows next to nothing about him. But George hasn’t been with someone in ages, and Clay is attractive, and actually pays attention to George, and that has George feeling like he’s just a few steps from being set on fire. 

A few minutes pass, and Nick stops glaring at his menu like it’s personally wronged him. George watches as Nick surveys the restaurant, looking for Karl. When he spots Karl, who’s balancing their orders on his forearms, Nick’s smile turns thoughtful and fond. 

George has known Nick for nine years. They’ve practically grown up together. George hadn’t ever seen this look on Nick’s face until Nick met Karl, and when he looks at Karl, he sees the same smile. 

“Your meals,” Karl says as he places the plates and glasses down, “are served. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, this looks great, Karl,” says George. 

Nick flashes Karl a thumbs up and begins to scarf down a slice. 

“Hey, so, are you guys doing anything on Friday?” asks Karl. “Big Q and I are having a party at our place. Super chill, y’know.”

“Oh, hell yes,” says Nick around a mouthful of olive-and-pepperoni. 

Nick and Alex get along like a house on fire. George finds Alex to be hilarious, but also… a lot to handle. He also knows that when Karl and Alex throw a party, it is never ‘chill.’ There will be, at the very least, thirty people present. 

“I’ll think about it,” says George.

Nick kicks George under the booth. “George, you’re going. You gotta get laid. I will literally murder you if you talk about mud boy one more time.”

“Stop calling him that,” George says. “Mud and clay are, like, entirely different things.”

“‘ _Like, entirely different things_ ,’” Nick parrots. “You’re an idiot, and we’re going. End of story.”

“Sweet!” Karl says, face lighting up. “Okay, I gotta get to my other tables. See y’all in a bit!”

As Karl leaves, he ruffles Nick’s hair. Nick immediately turns very, very red.

When Karl’s out of earshot, George leans forward and says, with a shit-eating grin, “Between the two of us, I don’t think I’m the one who needs to get laid, Sapnap.”

Nick glowers at George. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, and then sips at his Sprite petulantly. 

George taps at the crust of his pizza and says, “I guess we’re going to a party.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this exists bc I have big tiddies and no shame. enjoy.


	3. Chai Latte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW//
> 
> there's a knife present in this chapter. it is only used to cut the crusts off a grilled cheese sandwich and gesture vaguely towards things.

_Friday, November 6, 1:43 p.m._

“I have to deal with something,” announces Techno, looking up from his phone.

George and Tommy look at Techno. Tommy is attempting to braid three straws together, while Tubbo holds them together from across the counter. 

“That’s remarkably vague,” says George. 

“Yeah, that’s vague, Techno,” repeats Tommy, abandoning the braid. Tubbo carefully catches the end Tommy dropped, and holds the in-progress straw braid in front of him like it’s a prize. 

Techno turns to Tommy. “Do you even know how to spell ‘vague,’ Tommy?”

Tommy frowns. “‘Course I know how to spell ‘vague.’ Tubbo, show ‘em how we spell ‘vague.’”

“‘Vague,’” says Tubbo. “spelled V-A-G-E.” He smiles, confident in his answer.

“You just spelled ‘vage,’” says George. “as in ‘vagina.’”

Tubbo turns red. “What, no–– that’s not––”

“What? Impossible. That’s how ‘vague’ is spelled,” says Tommy. “V-A-G-E.”

“It’s got a ‘u,’” says George. “between the ‘g’ and the ‘e.’”

“Ridiculous,” scoffs Tommy. “Can’t be.”

“Well, then, Techno,” George says, “it seems I was mistaken. What you said, it wasn’t remarkably vague. It was remarkably ‘vage.’”

Techno’s expression might as well be carved out of stone. “I have to deal with something,” he repeats. “Don’t let Tommy blow anything up in the meantime.”

“Hey!” protests Tommy. “I don’t blow shit up–– that’s Wilbur’s thing. Wilbur does the explosions!”

Techno waves off the comment as he makes his way to the back.

Tommy and Tubbo’s focus is very suddenly turned toward George. 

“Gogy,” says Tommy, urgently.

George does not want to deal with them. He turns to the cash register and tries to look busy. “No,” he says.

“Gogy,” Tommy repeats. “Gogster. Gogmeister.”

“No,” says George. 

“Question for you,” continues Tommy, unfazed. “Tubbo, ask him the question.”

Tubbo blinks. “What question?”

“ _The_ question,” says Tommy. “the one we were talking about earlier?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Tubbo.

“The one–– nevermind, I’ll do it,” Tommy turns to George, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Tubbster and I were discussing our favorite Minecraft blocks––”

At that word, George feels his blood run icy. He can see it coming, the wave of his past, as it barrels towards him.

Tommy says, “obviously, cobblestone is the superior block,” and then the wave crests, and George is overtaken. 

_He remembers the nervousness, his sweaty palms that he wiped frantically on his thighs so his fingers wouldn’t stick to his keyboard. He remembers the night hours, after Sapnap had gone to sleep, when it was just George and_ him _, together, alone in a realm they built together. George remembers hearing_ his _voice, crackling over George’s headphones, raw with sleep and miles away. George remembers feeling like his heart was beating so hard that it might crack out of the cage of his ribs. George remembers being seventeen, and so in love that he was afraid it might break him._

_He remembers when it did break him._

And then the tide is receding, and George catches his breath, and he feels words clawing their way out of his throat: “I haven’t played Minecraft in years.”

Tommy blows a raspberry. “Boo, lame.”

Tubbo offers George a disappointed thumbs-down. 

“Guess I grew out of it,” George shrugs. “But I do know, for-fucking-certain, that cobblestone is not the best block.”

“But do you have a favorite block?” asks Tubbo. “Besides cobblestone. Because cobblestone sucks.”

“Hey!” protests Tommy.

“Nah,” says George. “A lot of them look the same to me.”

Tommy makes a face. “What?”

“I’m colorblind,” explains George. “Red-green.”

“What! No fucking way!” Tommy holds up a paper cup. “What color is this?”

George makes a face. “Tommy. That’s white. I’m red-green color blind.”

“Fuck. Shit,” Tommy searches for a second, and then gestures to the apron he is wearing. “Gogy, what color is this?”

George sighs. “I know it’s green, but it looks yellow.”

“Sick!” grins Tommy, triumphant.

“What’s sick?” comes a voice. 

George turns and sees Clay, who’s smiling and leaning against the counter. He’s got a messenger bag on him today, slung across his frame. 

George tamps down a smile. “Tommy’s excited that I’m colorblind, for some reason.”

“You’re colorblind?” asks Clay, looking at George. 

Clay’s gaze is intense. George nods. 

Clay looks pensive for a moment, and then settles on a simple “huh.”

“He can’t see green!” grins Tommy, unperturbed. 

“Tommy,” George bites out, “don’t you have a braid to finish?”

Tubbo offers the braid up to Tommy.

“You’re trying to distract me,” says Tommy, wagging his finger. 

“Yes,” says George.

Tommy shrugs. “Alright, then,” he says, and then returns to braiding straws. 

Clay raises an eyebrow. “So. He’s…”

“A lot to handle,” says George. “Don’t make eye contact or he’ll start talking again.”

Clay laughs, and it’s the same wheezy sound that threatens to take George under again. But he’s not seventeen anymore, and _he’s_ not in George’s life anymore, and besides, George likes Clay’s laugh. It makes him feel warm. 

“So,” Clay says, rapping his knuckles on the countertop. “you owe me a surprise drink.”

“Do I?” asks George. 

“You do. Said so last time.”

“Well, what kind of drink do you want today, Clay?” asks George. He says Clay’s name deliberately, reminding himself that of what’s real.

Clay’s gaze flicks to George’s lips. “Something… sweet.”

George feels like he’s been steeped in electricity, like he’s made of lightning. He laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, okay.” George starts to make a drink. “Caffeine?” he asks. 

“Please,” responds Clay. He pats his messenger bag. “I’ve got some stuff to work on.”

“Homework or adult-person-job work?” asks George. 

“Homework,” says Clay. “English essay.”

“You’re a…” George prompts. 

“Junior,” supplies Clay. “English major.”

George gestures to himself with the milk steamer he’s holding. “Senior, comp sci.”

Clay nods toward Tommy and Tubbo. “They’re not…”

George shakes his head. “Oh, no, no. They’re the local highschool goblins.”

Tommy flips George off. Tubbo waves happily. They return to their braiding. 

“Thank god,” says Clay. “I was scared for a moment there.”

George laughs and adds steamed milk to the frothy concoction before him. He presents it to Clay with a grin. 

“What is it?” asks Clay, accepting the drink.

“A surprise,” says George. 

Clay raises an eyebrow, but dutifully takes a sip. “Mmm,” he hums, clearly pleased. “This is good. I have no idea what it is.”

“It’s a dirty chai latte,” says George. "Lots of secret espresso shots." He feels warm all over, watching Clay smile at the cup in his hands. He’s got a bit of foamed milk sitting on his upper lip. 

“You’ve got a…” George trails off, leans forward instead. He swipes the pad of his thumb across Clay’s upper lip, gathering the milk there. 

Clay makes a punched-out sound at the contact. 

George glances over and sees that Tommy and Tubbo are still merrily braiding their straws. 

George is an adult. He’s an adult, and he wants this adult, the one with the yellow eyes, the one right in front of him. He spends a split second trying to rationalize what he’s about to do, thinks, _fuck it_ , and then licks the milk off the pad of his thumb. 

Clay, eyes wide, utters a breathy, “fuck, _George_.”

“The fuck is this,” comes a voice. 

George cringes, _of fucking course_ , and turns to see Techno and Phil, who have clearly observed the entire exchange. 

Techno is wielding an actual, literal knife. Phil is munching away on a grilled cheese, his green-and-white striped hat pulled low over his blond hair. 

“Why do you have a knife?” sputters George.

“Phil needed help cutting the crusts off his grilled cheese,” explains Techno. 

“That’s what you had to deal with?” asks George, indignant. 

“Yes,” says Techno. 

“No fair! Can I have a knife?” Tommy asks. 

“Absolutely not,” says Phil. “But you can have a grilled cheese.”

Tommy considers this. “Seems fair,” he shrugs. 

Techno uses his knife to gesture between Clay and George. “See, Phil? I told you. They’re ogling.”

George can feel his face heating up. “I am not–– that is––”

Clay cuts him off, “Ogling was minimal.”

“Tommy?” prompts Techno.

“Was a hell of a lot more than minimal,” says Tommy. “But Wilbur says that Tubbo and I aren’t supposed to interrupt George’s _Queer Eye_ shit.”

George blinks. “My _what_?!”

This breaks Clay. He laughs, loud and wheezy. 

“Clearly both you and Wilbur haven’t seen _Queer Eye_ ,” scoffs Techno. 

“Have you?” asks Tommy.

“Of course. It’s a cultural touchstone,” says Techno. Phil makes a noise of agreement. 

“What is going _on_ ,” hisses George, mortified. 

“Ah,” says Techno. He marches up to the counter, pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, and presents it to Clay. “For you.”

“I’m taking this because you have a knife,” says Clay. He takes the paper and reads it. His eyebrows furrow. “Is this… yours?” he asks, tentatively.

Techno barks out a laugh. “No,” he nods toward George. “it’s his.”

Clay’s cheeks color. He holds the paper up for George to see. It has a phone number on it. “Is this okay?” Clay asks. 

George bites his lip. “Yes. If you, uh… if you want my number, that is.”

“I want it,” says Clay. 

“Good,” says George.

Tommy faux-gags. “See? _Queer Eye_ shit, Tubbo.”

Tubbo frowns and whacks Tommy soundly over the head with their straw braid. 

Techno points at Clay. It would be fine, but Techno is still holding the knife, so instead it is immensely threatening. “You’re distracting the staff,” he says. 

“I’ll just, uh… go over there,” says Clay, gesturing towards a vacant table. He grins and holds up George’s number. “Talk soon,” he says. 

As he’s walking to his table, he thrusts his fist into the air triumphantly. 

“Phil, he’s doing the fucking _Breakfast Club_ thing,” mutter Techno. 

Phil pats Techno on the arm and offers him the half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich. 

Techno accepts the sandwich and takes a bite. “Do work things,” he says to Tommy and George, waving vaguely. 

“Yessir,” says Tommy, returning to braiding straws. 

George feels his phone buzz in his back pocket. He checks it, trying to shield it from Techno’s gaze by tucking it beside the stand of flavored syrups. 

_I’d like to see you sometime without hot drinks involved_ , texts Clay. 

George smiles softly at his screen. _How about alcoholic drinks?_ , he types. _There’s a party tonight._

 _Send me the address_ , texts Clay. 

George looks up and catches Clay’s gaze from across the room. He smiles. 

***

_Friday, November 6, 8:37 p.m._

“George. Georgie. Georgina,” calls Nick.

“Only one of those is my name, Sapnap,” says George. He’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to fix his hair. 

Nick stomps into the bathroom. He’s got a white strip of fabric tied around his head, holding back his bangs. He points to it. “How stupid does this look?”

George eyes the headband. “It could be worse.”

Nick blows a lock of hair out of his eyes, and it flops back down. “I need numbers. Ratios. Cold, hard facts.”

“Maybe like, uh… a four out of ten for stupidity.”

Nick makes a face. “Karl said it looked good.”

George raises an eyebrow. “Oh, did he?’

Nick frowns. “Nevermind. Shouldn’t’ve said that.”

“Oh, Snapmap, don’t be a bummer. Tell me all about how handsome Karl said you are,” says George, grinning wide.

Nick points at George. “Do _not_ call me that, or we will have _issues_.”

George laughs and returns to the mirror. He feels nervous in a way that feels foreign to him, like he’s fizzy all over with nerves. 

Nick surveys George’s appearance, and then his gaze lands on George’s jeans. 

“George. Oh my god.”

“What.”

“You’re planning on _having sex_.”

George blinks. He can feel the heat rushing to his face. “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“You cuffed your jeans!” shouts Nick, pointing to the offending article of clothing. “You literally only do that if you’re going to have sex with a _boy_.”

“Sapnap, what the actual fuck are you talking about?!”

“You cuffed your jeans! It’s like your twink mating call!”

“What the fuck are you even _saying_!”

“You’re planning on having sex tonight! Ohmigod. Wait,” understanding dances over Nick’s features. George wants to punch him. “Is Clay coming tonight? Did you invite him?”

Instead of answering, George makes a show out of uncuffing his jeans. After he finishes, he spreads his hands wide, facing Nick. “Happy?” he asks.

“Can’t believe you’re gonna get laid in Karl’s house,” Nick says, shaking his head. “He’ll be so disappointed in you. Better use Quackity’s room.”

“I’m not having sex in either of their rooms!” protests George. “I’m not having sex!”

“The jeans disagree!” says Nick.

“I uncuffed them, asshole!”

***

_Friday, November 6, 8:59 p.m._

Nick drives them to Karl’s place. He laughs so hard that he swerves into another lane when George, red in the face and frowning deeply, recuffs his jeans. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> considering following my twitter, it's @/chattrekisses. do it. it'll make my brain make the happy chemical. plz.
> 
> also genuinely curious: who do you think my comfort streamer is. I wanna know what vibes I give off
> 
> also also: I am looking for a beta reader, if you're interested plz contact me via twitter :]


	4. Vodka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I demand you follow my twitter (@chattrekisses) or I will put dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow––
> 
> much love and thanks to my beta readers! y'all are wonderful and you make me the happiest. 
> 
> CW//
> 
> there's smut in this chapter, as well as drinking and mentions of recreational drug use (if you want to avoid the smut, visit the end notes. I'll include the starting and ending sentences of the smut, so you can skip past the in-between parts)!

_Friday, November 6, 9:17 p.m._

Nick parks his shitty Fiat two houses down from Alex and Karl’s apartment complex. They walk to the complex, hands shoved deep in their pockets to fight the bracing night air. 

“Dude, I can’t believe you cuffed your jeans. I cannot believe it,” says Nick, grinning wildly. 

“You almost killed us!” shouts George. “You swerved right in front of fucking lorry because I did something to my fucking jeans!”

Nick waggles his eyebrows. “Bet that’s not all you’ll do to your jeans tonight.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” says George. “That literally makes no sense, at all.”

Nick is cackling when they finally arrive at the door. It’s slightly ajar, and bass-boosted music and laughter leaks into the quiet night air.

Nick pushes the door open, and they enter. George surveys the place with an amused smile.

It’s already been trashed by party-goers, and the night’s just begun. The lights are dim, and groups of people are clumped together; sipping from solo cups, swaying to the booming music. 

Karl’s standing with a cluster of people–– George recognizes Chandler from _Mr. Beast’s_ , so they’re probably his friends from work. Karl seems to spot them, or more likely, spots Nick. 

He bounds over to them with a bright smile. “You made it!” he says. 

He throws his arms around Nick, who, for his part, recovers rather quickly and reciprocates the embrace, his cheeks pinking. Karl pulls back and then hugs George, swift and friendly. 

Nick clears his throat and wipes his palms against his thighs. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says.

“You’re wearing the headband,” says Karl. He leans forward and runs his thumb across Nick’s headband where it rests on his forehead. “I think it looks nice.”

Nick turns very red very quickly at the touch. “Thanks, dude.”

Karl’s grin is bright. He links arms with Nick happily. 

“Maybe you should have cuffed your jeans,” George says to Nick.

Nick pulls a face. “Dude, I’m not a twink.”

Karl blinks. “I–– what’s happening?”

They’re saved from providing an explanation because Alex is suddenly sauntering up to them, a beanie pulled down over his fringe. He points at Nick. “Fiancé,” he says. He and Nick execute a complicated handshake during which Nick tries very hard not to jostle Karl. Alex turns to George. “Gogy,” he says.

“Oh god,” says George. “you’ve met Tommy, haven’t you?”

“Soot-man introduced me,” Alex says. “Tommy? _Weird_ kid. Funny kid. Two thumbs up, would get a Pizza Hut.”

George does not know what to make of that. Luckily, Alex has already shifted his attention back to Nick. 

“Sappitus Nappitus. Karl has acquired the devil’s lettuce for you. It’s in his room. You may smoke-itus and toke-itus there,” Alex says.

“Sweet,” grins Nick. “I think I will partake. Karl?”

“I’ll come,” says Karl. “Gotta grab another Vodka Monster first, though.”

George blinks. “You’re using Monster as a mixer?”

Karl smiles, unlinks arms with Nick, and then places his hands on George’s shoulders. He shakes George slightly as he speaks, as if he’s imparting upon George ancient knowledge. “George,” he says, “there is literally nothing that a Monster Energy cannot do, and do damn well.”

“Sure, okay,” says George. He doesn’t quite know how else to respond.

“You get your drink, I’ll meet you in your room?” Nick asks Karl.

Karl nods. “Yeah, go, go, go. Wanna get a drink with me, George?”

“Yes,” says George. He’s about to ask Alex if he’ll be joining when he notices that Alex is already gone. He’s now standing across the room, arguing loudly with a man with extremely prominent mutton chops. 

“Sweet,” says Karl. He hooks his arm around George’s and pulls him toward the kitchen. 

They push through the throng of people. George recognizes some of them: Wilbur is seated on the couch, having located an acoustic guitar; Fundy from George’s comp sci course has acquired a bottle of vodka and is chasing a lanky man around the room, shouting, “Jack Manifold! Jack Manifold!”; a group of employees from _Mr. Beast’s Pizzeria_ are laughing together as one awkwardly attempts to hold his drink steady while executing a forward roll. 

They make it to the kitchen, which is crowded with red solo cups and bottles of liquor, and, bizarrely, a whole roast chicken. 

“Niki felt like she had to bring a housewarming gift,” explains Karl. 

“Sounds reasonable,” says George. 

He starts to fix himself a shot of vodka when he sees Karl isn’t making a drink with a Monster at all, but with Tequila and pineapple juice. 

“I thought you were making a Monster drink?” says George. 

“This one’s for Nick,” says Karl. 

Karl’s pouring the pineapple juice when George says, “You like him, don’t you?” 

It isn’t a question. 

Karl puts down the juice. He hesitates for a moment, maybe contemplating denying it, but then asks, quietly, “Do you think he knows?”

“Honestly?” George sighs. “I don’t know.”

Karl nods slowly. “Okay.”

“For what it’s worth, I think he likes you,” says George. “I just don’t think he’s ready to admit it yet.”

Karl hums and grabs a Monster from the fridge. Karl starts adding vodka to it, and George thinks the conversation might be over, but then Karl says, “I’m okay with waiting.”

George’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”

“I’ve known Nick for, what? Two years now, maybe? What’s a little more time?” He smiles at George, and it’s a little heartbreaking. George wants to punch Nick for being so blind. 

“He’ll come around,” reassures George. “He better, or I’ll beat him up.”

Karl laughs at that. “Thanks, George,” he says. He grabs the drinks he made. “Alright, I’m gonna go get drunk enough to pretend that I don’t have feelings for one of my best friends.”

“Have fun with that,” says George. He waves idly as Karl leaves. 

George turns back to the counter and scrutinizes the shot he’s prepared. On one hand, maybe he shouldn’t get too drunk tonight. Maybe he should pour the shot in a solo cup and add a mixer, nurse it for a while, sipping just enough to calm his nerves. 

But then he feels the brush of denim on his ankles. His jeans are cuffed.

He downs the shot. 

George feels a buzz from his pocket, and pulls his phone out to find a text from Clay. _Should be there in five_ , it says. 

George smiles down at his phone. He sends a smiley face before fixing two more drinks, one with vodka and one with tequila. 

He surveys the party–– he doesn’t want Clay to arrive and find George standing awkwardly alone in the corner. 

He spots Wilbur on the couch with his acoustic guitar and makes his way over. Wilbur’s holding court, seated between two women, with Alex seated on the floor opposite him.

“Gogy!” Alex pats the floor beside him as George approaches. “Sit with me, sit, sit!” 

“Um, hi, okay,” says George, sitting down. He balances his cups on his knees. 

“Hey George,” says Wilbur, idly strumming his guitar. 

The girl to Wilbur’s left smiles wide and holds her hand out to George. “Hi! My name’s Niki!”

George shakes her hand. “You brought the chicken,” he says.

Niki nods. “I may have thought this was a dinner party.”

Wilbur laughs and ruffles Niki’s hair fondly. “It was a nice touch, Niki.”

The girl to Wilbur’s right grunts and crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, I brought the White Claw but I’m not getting any fuckin’ thanks, what’s that about,” she says. 

“That’s ‘cause no one likes White Claw. It’s a weak-ass pussy drink,” declares Alex amicably. 

“You shut the fuck up Quackity, because I fuckin’ love White Claw, and I’m gonna get white girl wasted on it, just you watch,” says the girl. She takes a very pointed sip from the White Claw in her hand. 

Wilbur ruffles the girl’s hair. “I don’t doubt it, Minx.”

Minx slaps Wilbur’s hand away. “I’m not nice like Niki. Try that again, Wilbur, and I’ll bite the hand off.”

Wilbur laughs good-naturedly and returns to the guitar. He strums out a chord, humming quietly to himself. 

“Where did he get the guitar?” George asks Alex. 

Alex shrugs and stage-whispers, “I think the fucker brought it from home.”

George laughs. He readjusts his grip on the cups, and then feels Minx’s gaze on him. She’s glaring, her eyebrows furrowed together. 

“Um,” he says, “you good?”

Minx frowns. She sweeps her wave of purple hair over her shoulder and asks, “how the fuck are you fuckin’ prettier than me?” 

George doesn’t really know what to make of that. He says, “what.”

“Fuckin’ unfair, it is,” she says. “how pretty you are. Fuckin’ unfair.”

“I don’t–– what?” manages George. He’s not good with compliments, he can feel himself start to turn an embarrassed red. 

“Hi,” comes a voice.

George registers a presence beside him and turns to see Clay making to sit down next to him. Clay’s wearing a gray henley, and George can see his collarbones. Clay has really nice collarbones. 

“You look nice,” says Clay with an easy smile. He nods to the cups that George is holding. “Is one of those for me?”

“Hey Clay,” says George, feeling his cheeks coloring. He holds the cups aloft. “Tequila or vodka?”

“Tequila,” says Clay. George hands him the cup, and Clay takes a sip. George watches Clay’s Adam's apple bob as he swallows. 

“You get here okay?” George asks. He’s not quite sure what else to say–– he can feel the heat radiating off of Clay’s skin, and he’s realizing that he’s never been this close to Clay before, never been near him without the counter in their way. It feels dangerous, almost. 

“My roommate drove me,” says Clay. “Bad was going to come to this party anyway–– he’s friends with one of the hosts.”

“Karl or Alex?” asks George.

Clay wrinkles his nose. “Uh. Whichever one of them is the duck one.”

“ _The duck one_ ,” laughs George. “Quackity, then. That’s Alex. He’s right––” George turns to where Alex was sitting and finds the space empty. “Where––”

George is cut off by a shout from behind him. He turns around to find Alex standing next to a man in a black sweatshirt, who George recognizes as Darryl from Clay’s first visit to _Just Brew It_. Alex has apparently said something deeply disturbing or offensive, because Darryl has a single shocked hand pressed to his chest and has just shouted “language!” very loudly. Alex seems to be pleased with this reaction, as he is dancing around Darryl, squealing, “we’re popping off!”

“I genuinely don’t know how they’re friends,” says Clay. “They’re opposite in pretty much every way.”

“Big Q’s not too bad,” George says. “He’s just, uh. A lot.”

Clay laughs at this. He scoots a little closer to George, until their shoulders are pressed together. “I can’t stay all that long,” he says. “Bad and I have a study group in the morning. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says George. He can feel the warmth of Clay’s skin as it permeates through the fabric of Clay’s henley. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

George feels eyes on him, and finds that Minx’s glaring efforts have redoubled. She’s looking between George and Clay, frowning deeply. 

“Wilbur, I fuckin’ hate you,” she announces. 

Wilbur doesn’t even look up from the guitar. “Is this for a normal reason, or a new reason?”

“Your friends are all too fuckin’ pretty,” grumbles Minx. She gestures vaguely at Clay. “Like who the fuck is this dreamboat? I’m fuckin’ pissed.”

For some reason, Clay flinches at Minx’s comment. He laughs, but it’s stilted and awkward, and then takes a long sip from his drink. 

“I think you’re very pretty,” says Niki, smiling brightly. 

Minx waves away Niki’s words. “Yeah, yeah,” she says, flippant, but she’s forcing down a smile. 

“I’m going to play a song,” announces Wilbur. 

“Yay!” says Niki.

“Fuckin’ of course you are, you acoustic bitch,” says Minx. 

George tugs on Clay’s shirtsleeve to get his attention. “Want to talk somewhere?”

Clay nods and stands, then holds a hand out for George. George lets Clay lift him from the floor and lead him away from the crowd of people. They’re still holding hands loosely when they make it to the kitchen, and George is sure that his cheeks are pink. He looks at Clay, and he hears the ocean rush in his ears. 

Clay releases George’s hand, and George tries not to feel too disappointed. Clay leans against the fridge, then startles, realizing that it’s covered in magnets. One falls from Clay’s disruption. Clay picks it up, inspects it, and then barks out a laugh. 

“What’s it say?” asks George. 

“It says,” Clay stops, laughing harder, and then starts again, “it says ‘I heart gay sex.’”

He holds the thing aloft, and sure enough, that is what it says. 

George laughs. “It’s–– yeah. It does.”

“Your friends are interesting,” says Clay. 

“They’re… unique,” concedes George. 

Clay’s gaze flicks around the kitchen, cataloguing it, and then fixes on one item. He makes a face. 

“Is that a chicken?” asks Clay, staring incredulously at the chicken Niki brought. 

“It is indeed,” says George. “Do you _want_ some chicken?”

Clay laughs. “No, I think I’m good.”

George smiles. He’s holding his cup with both hands, trying to rein in his nerves. He looks at Clay, and he _wants_ , even though Clay is still a mystery to him. “I don’t know a whole lot about you,” he says. 

“That’s fair,” says Clay. He sips his drink, considering something, and then asks, “what do you know?”

“Your name’s Clay,” George says, “You’re majoring in English. You’re really fucking tall.” This makes Clay laugh. George continues, feeling emboldened, “You’re ridiculous. You use bad pick-up lines on baristas––”

“Just you,” interrupts Clay. 

George blushes at this, pleased. “Just me then. You use terrible pick-up lines on me––”

“Oh, c’mon now, they’re not _that_ bad,” scoffs Clay. He takes a step closer to George, and then another, until they’re nearly toe-to-toe. “What else?” he asks, voice pitched low. 

George feels warm all over. He meets Clay’s gaze. “You have pretty eyes.”

Clay quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” says George. “I know that they’re green, but they look… almost gold to me.”

“And you like that?”

Clay’s voice is low, quiet, and he’s so close to George that George can feel Clay’s breath ghosting across his lips. “Yeah,” he says. “I like it.”

Clay reaches up, and George can feel Clay’s fingers brush his jaw. He’s closing his eyes, preparing for the kiss, when Alex screams, “KARLOS!”

George jumps back, cheeks flushed with a ridiculous kind of guilt–– almost like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Alex has swept into the kitchen behind a very stressed looking Karl. 

“Karlos…” purrs Alex, hands clasped together imploringly. He clearly hasn’t clocked how anxious Karl is. “Please do shots with me! I would like to do shots with you.”

“Big Q,” Karl says. “I would. But I gotta get water now.”

“Is everything okay?” asks George. 

Karl grabs a cup from the cupboard and starts to fill it up. “Nick’s gotten, like, _way_ too high accidentally. He didn’t know how strong the edibles were. I’m gonna take care of him, but he’s out of it for now.”

“Shit,” says George. “Do you need my help?”

Karl shakes his head. “Nah, I can do it. He just needs to lay down for a while.”

It’s protocol at this point–– this doesn’t happen often, but when it does, George knows that it’s something that Nick just needs to ride out. Still, he asks, “are you sure you don’t need me?”

“He’ll be fine. I’ve got the soundproofing so it’s quiet in there, and if there’s any more people in there he’ll definitely get overwhelmed,” says Karl. He’s holding the full glasses of water now, bouncing from heel to heel, anxious to return to Nick’s side. “For real, I got him. You’re still cool with crashing on a couch, right?”

George takes a moment to mourn the crick in his neck that will be inevitable come morning, and then nods. He wasn’t expecting to make it back home tonight anyway. “Yeah, it’s not a problem.”

“Okay, sweet, sweet,” says Karl, making to leave. “I’m gonna go back to him. Have fun!”

George waves and polishes off his drink. He trusts Karl, he knows that Nick is in good hands. 

Alex’s focus shifts to Clay and George. He hops over to them with a grin and a bottle of tequila. “Boys. Boys! Men. Lovers. Would you do shots with me?” he asks. 

Clay shrugs a shoulder at George. “I would. Are you up to it?”

George nods. “Sure, yeah. Alright, Big Q.”

Alex thrusts a happy fist into the air. “Yes! Man, this’ll be great. I already have limes n’ shit, let me grab the salt…”

Alex searches the counter for the limes, foraging through a forest of beer bottles and White Claws for his prize. He emerges victorious with a small bowl of lime wedges that had been hidden in the shadow of Niki’s chicken. He sets it on the counter beside a salt shaker. 

Clay makes eye contact with George as he licks the back of his hand, right at the base of his index finger. George feels heat pool in the pit of his stomach. 

On instinct, he tucks his hair behind his ears, cheeks flushed.

Alex immediately starts to cackle. “Did you just–– Gogy just did the Debby Ryan hair tuck!”

Somehow, George’s face gets hotter. “I did not!”

Clay snorts and mutters, “cute,” as he pours salt on the saliva-slick part of his hand. 

George and Alex follow Clay’s lead, each licking their hand and then applying salt. Alex distributes shots of tequila and lime wedges. 

“Countdown?” asks George. 

Alex hops back and forth on the balls of his feet as he counts down, punctuating each number. “Three, two, one, go!”

George licks the salt off his hand, downs his shot, and then bites into the lime wedge, puckering his lips against the sour. 

“Oh, fuck,” winces Clay. His voice is low and rough from the burn of the tequila, and it makes George feel like he’s been set on fire. 

“Yes, man,” whoops Alex, already pivoting away from them. “Nice! Oh, fuck, Wilbur’s playing again, I’m gonna smash that stupid guitar.” And then he’s marching away, gone as suddenly as he arrived, leaving George alone with Clay in the kitchen again, vodka tracing a warm path to the pit of George’s stomach. 

Clay looks at George, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. “You’ve got salt on your lip,” he says. 

George steps toward Clay and tilts his face up, letting his eyes flutter closed. “Get it for me, then,” he says. 

George feels a thumb brush his top lip, cresting over his cupid’s bow, brushing away the salt crystals. He doesn’t have time to feel disappointed, because Clay’s thumb is quickly replaced by his lips. The kiss is whisper-chaste, more a promise than anything else, and it warms George to the bone. 

But he doesn’t want a promise from Clay. He wants more. 

When Clay pulls back, and George looks at him, he finds that Clay’s eyes are a smouldering yellow, like the Sun is instilled in his irises.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” George says, deliberately. 

Clay blinks. “Um. Okay.” 

George steps back, away from the heat of Clay’s lips, and says again, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Sure, alright,” Clay says. 

George walks out of the kitchen, clinging desperately to the remnants of his dignity that wouldn’t allow him to wink. 

He locates the bathroom and locks himself in it. 

A minute passes. 

George fixes his hair in the mirror. He puts a little toothpaste on his tongue and tries to swish it around. He fiddles with the cuffs of his jeans. 

Another minute passes. 

George is beginning to resign this as a misguided attempt when there’s a tentative knock on the bathroom door. George opens it, and Clay stands in the doorframe, looking distinctly confused. 

“I’m not sure if you were trying to give me a sign back there, or something. I can go, if you want me to,” Clay says. 

“I was trying to give you a sign,” says George. Clay’s hair looks like spun gold in the dim light. George wants to touch it. 

Clay breathes out a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” he says as he pushes into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. “Otherwise this would have been so awkward.”

Clay leans against the bathroom door and surveys George with a lazy smile. 

“Clay,” says George.

“George,” says Clay.

“This is the part where you kiss me,” George says. He tries to say it confidently, smoothly, but he knows that his cheeks are flushed. 

Clay blinks. “Yeah, I can do that,” he says. 

Clay steps forward into George’s space. George feels a hand curl around the back of his neck, tilting his head up so his gaze meets Clay’s. Clay’s eyes are yellow as honey, his pupils blown wide. “Yeah?” Clay asks.

George answers by grabbing Clay by the collar and pulling him down so his face is level with George’s. “Yes,” snaps George, feigning exasperation. 

“So impatient,” mutters Clay, and then he’s a breath away from George’s lips, and George stops thinking. 

When Clay kisses him, he tastes like the ocean. There’s salt on his lips from his tequila shot, undercut by the bite of alcohol and sweet mint. Clay’s lips are insistent as the tide, and when he licks against the seam of George’s lips, George happily parts them. Clay’s clever fingers trace George’s jaw, his neck, and then draw down to the small of George’s back.

Clay kisses like a tidal wave, pulling George in. 

Clay’s hands slide over the curve of George’s ass and settle behind his thighs. Clay says, “I’m gonna pick you up,” his voice breathy against George’s lips. George doesn’t have time to reply before Clay lifts George up and carries him to the counter, setting him down there. 

George does let out a squeak when his ass falls into the sink. He lolls his head back. “My butt is wet,” he complains. 

“Sorry,” says Clay. He doesn’t sound sorry. He leans down and affixes his lips to George’s neck. George feels as Clay licks up the column of George’s throat and settles at pulsepoint, sucking a bruise there. 

“Clay,” whines George, his fingers scrambling for purchase against the expanse of Clay’s back. “My butt is wet. I don’t like that.”

Clay pulls back from George’s neck. His lips are very red. He grips the sides of George’s hips and draws him closer, so he’s perched on the lip of the counter instead of inside the sink. George’s legs are on either side of Clay’s hips. Clay presses closer, so their hips are flush. George can feel how hard Clay is. 

Clay raises an eyebrow. “Is this better?” he asks. 

George swallows. He rolls his hips experimentally, and Clay makes a punched-out sound. “Yeah, this is better.”

Clay kisses George’s jaw and then moves lower, nipping at his neck. George rolls his hips against Clay’s again. Clay groans, gripping the sides of George’s hips. “Christ,” he murmurs. “You’ll be the death of me, George.”

George gets his hands under Clay’s shirt and presses his palms against the hard planes of Clay’s stomach, the curves of his sides. His skin is warm. 

“You should take off your shirt,” says George. 

“You should take off _your_ shirt,” counters Clay, his lips brushing against the juncture of George’s neck and shoulder. 

George pushes Clay back just enough and obliges, pulling his shirt over his head and letting it land on the floor. 

Clay smiles crookedly and does the same, before leaning and pressing his lips to George’s clavicles, his chest. His thumbs trace the lines of George’s hip bones. 

George toys with the button of Clay’s pants, his thumb ghosting over the zipper, feeling the hardness of Clay behind it. George leans into Clay and whispers against the shell of his ear, “can I suck you off?” 

Clay’s breath hitches. “I–– god. Yes. Yes. Please.”

George smiles, satisfied, and pushes himself off the countertop, letting his body slide against Clay’s. He flips their positions, so Clay is standing with his back to the counter. George kisses Clay as his fingers work to unbutton Clay’s jeans. 

George pulls away from Clay’s lips, and then slides to his knees. Clay’s pupils are blown wide. Those yellow eyes spark a curl of arousal in George’s stomach. 

George works Clay’s pants open and pushes them past Clay’s hips, then palms at the hardness in Clay’s boxers with interest, a smile playing across his lips. 

“Oh, fuck,” mutters Clay. “Jesus, you’re just–– okay. Yes. Okay.”

George’s smile is amused now. “You’re being loud.”

“Sorry,” says Clay.

“It’s not a complaint,” says George. He grips the waistband of Clay’s boxers and starts to tug them down. 

Each inch exposes something more enticing. Clay’s skin looks like fresh cream, interrupted only by a spray of freckles. He’s got a thatch of golden curls at the apex of his thighs. George finishes pulling Clay’s boxers off, and Clay’s cock springs free, level with George’s face. 

His cock is long and thick, skin slightly darker than the rest of him, the swollen head pointed up toward his belly button. George leans forward and licks up the shaft, tracing a vein with his tongue. He swirls his tongue around the head of Clay’s cock, and then sinks lower, taking it into his mouth. 

“Fuck…” groans Clay. He grips the lip of the counter, knuckles turning white.

George presses his tongue against the underside of Clay’s cock as he sucks, and Clay lets out a low moan. Clay threads his fingers of his free hand through the hair at the nape of George’s neck, the other hand still gripping the counter firmly. 

“Can I— _fuck, George_ — can I?” asks Clay, pressing his palm against the back of George’s head. 

George hums his assent, wrapping his lips tighter around Clay’s cock. 

“Okay, okay,” says Clay. He presses George’s head, pushing his mouth further down the length of his cock. “Oh, fuck, _George_.”

George can feel the head of Clay’s cock brush the back of his throat, and he breathes through his nose, desperately fighting his gag reflex. 

Clay’s head slumps back, his eyes pressed shut. “Oh, fuck, fuck.”

He lets George’s head go, and George pulls off to take a breath. 

“You okay?” asks Clay. His voice is so tender that it makes George’s chest constrict. 

He takes Clay into his mouth again, forcing his head down until his nose is pressed against Clay’s pubic bone, then pulling off and doing it again. Clay’s making wrecked noises from above him, his fingers scrambling to grip George’s hair, helping guide him in his task. 

“George, I’m— _fuck, do that again_ — I’m close,” says Clay. George looks up at Clay from underneath his lashes and sees that Clay’s skin is flushed pink. 

George pulls off and licks his lips. “Good,” George says. “Do it.” 

He rests the head of Clay’s cock against his tongue, eyebrows quirked daringly. 

“Oh, Jesus,” murmurs Clay. George works his hand against Clay’s cock, stroking faster and faster until Clay cums with a cry across George’s tongue. 

Clay’s panting, his breath coming in short bursts when he pulls George to his feet. Clay captures his lips, seeking out his own taste on George’s tongue. He works a hand into George’s pants and pulls out his hard cock, and begins to jerk him off. He flicks his wrist expertly, his free hand buried in George’s hair, tugging slightly.

George is pliant against the hard line of Clay’s body, gasping out his breaths, already embarrassingly close to cumming. 

“Clay,” he whines against Clay’s lips. “Oh, god, _Clay_.”

“C’mon now,” murmurs Clay. “Cum for me.”

George can hear the roar of the ocean as he races toward his climax. Clay’s words are the tidal wave, they drag him under. George gasps as he cums, ropes of white hitting Clay’s chest. 

Clay strokes George until George catches his breath, registering his overstimulation. 

Clay steps away. He finds a washcloth and wets it, then cleans George up and then himself. 

Clay is shrugging his shirt back on when George asks, voice lilting hopefully, “will you stay the night?”

“I can’t. Bad and I have that study group tomorrow,” says Clay apologetically. His cheekbones are still flushed a rosey pink. “It’s obnoxiously early. I should really leave now.”

George tries to tamp down the rush of disappointment he feels. “That’s okay,” he offers. 

Clay must sense how George is feeling, because he smiles crookedly and brushes a thumb across George’s jaw. “That was… great. I’d like to… can I call you?” he asks.

“I won’t answer if you call me,” says George. He’s smiling despite himself. “You can text me like a normal person.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Clay murmurs. He leans in and kisses George, and though it’s just the barest brush of lips, George feels like his heart has been sent off skittering in his chest. 

“You’re pretty when you’re flustered,” says Clay.

“I’m always flustered. It’s my natural state,” protests George.

“Well, you’re always pretty.”

George feels himself turn red. “Shut up.”

Clay laughs and kisses him once more, soundly, and then draws back. “Do you have a ride home?” Clay asks, fussing with the cuffs of his henley. 

“I’ll spend the night here,” George says, “but Sapnap will drive me home in the morning.” 

It takes George a moment to realize that Clay’s gone completely still. He looks as if someone has just dunked him in ice water. 

“Everything okay?” asks George.

Clay blinks once, hard, and then shakes his head quickly, like he’s trying to dislodge a thought. “Yeah, of course,” he says. He’s smiling, but it looks wrong. Forced. “Sapnap… he’s your friend who got too high, right?”

“Yeah, he’s my roommate,” George explains. “His name’s Nick, but everyone calls him Sapnap. Leftover from our old gaming days.”

“Huh,” says Clay. “Well, I hope he’s alright. I’m glad Karl’s taking care of him.”

Clay’s body language is all wrong–– he’s suddenly closed off, holding his wrists in front of his chest like he’s trying to form some sort of barrier. 

George, eyebrows furrowed in concern, steps forward and raises a hand to brush his fingers across Clay’s jaw. “You’re sure everything’s okay?”

Clay nods, and smiles reassuringly. All at once, he’s at ease again, like a mask has slid into place. “Everything’s okay,” he says. His voice is bright, but it doesn’t sit right with George. “I just remembered that I have work to do for this study group tomorrow, and I totally haven’t done it yet. Bad’s totally gonna chew me out.”

George doesn’t really know what to say, so he just nods. 

“Alright, I should really go find Bad so I can get home,” says Clay. “I’ll text you.”

Clay leaves George in the bathroom. 

George lets him. He feels a bit like he’s drowning. 

Eventually, he leaves the bathroom, suddenly exhausted. The party’s still in full swing, so he can’t crash on the couch. He can’t go to Karl’s room either. 

George makes his way to Alex’s bed, hoping that he won’t mind. He falls asleep on top of the covers, still in his cuffed jeans, and when he dreams, he dreams of salt –– the spray of the ocean, the taste of it on Clay’s lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut starts at, "George toys with the button of Clay’s pants," and ends at "Clay is shrugging his shirt back on."
> 
> FOLLOW MY TWITTER. WHY HAVEN'T YOU FOLLOWED MY TWITTER. DO IT. GIMME CLOUT. PLS. IT'S @chattrekisses!

**Author's Note:**

> Feed the muses. Give them kudos and comments. Please, they're hungry.
> 
> Much love and thanks to my beta readers Goose and @sansitude! Y'all make my heart bounce.


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